


Song for the Asking

by redvineshark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, just two fools in love !, post armageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvineshark/pseuds/redvineshark
Summary: Life goes on. C'est la vie.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Song for the Asking

He would never have done it had he known how disastrous it would be. Maybe before Aziraphale could’ve gone on without Crowley’s lips against his own, but now that he knows the feeling of it he sincerely doubts he’ll find it in him to stop anytime soon, lest he be struck down where he stands. Sits. Regardless, he’s always been one for indulgences. Little human delights, sweets and such, but this is beyond any defence of curiosity, nor fitting in. If he were to fall he supposes gluttony suits him as a cardinal, though he fancies Crowley a sin all his own. He’s drawing up a list of pros and cons in his head, the only downside at the moment being that the still slightly forked tongue feels a little odd, though it’s not a quirk he couldn’t settle into. But the pros...oh dear, the pros. Because he’s beginning to entertain the notion that  _ this  _ is part of the Great Plan. After all, how could they not be, with how perfectly they put themselves together? He theorizes that perhaps they were a prototype of sorts for the garden to which they had been so cleverly assigned; that he too had been born from Crowley’s rib and meant to follow, always, desperately trying to find a way back there, close to his heart. He tries to say as much but finds he can’t do anything at all but keep kissing him, and he figures that says more than he could put to word anyway.

Now, here's the thing about Aziraphale and love. You see, that sort of thing is to be left to mortals and demons, as closely intertwined as they are. Love is something so terribly human, as is written between poets and bards and in the late night paragraphs of smitten teenagers. And the other side, well, they’d been something close to that once. Human. So for an angel to love is an act of rebellion in itself, to fall so hard you may as well be Falling. 

When they break apart, more so to let things sink in than to breathe (as that’s an unnecessary formality) Aziraphale wants to say many things. He wants to whisper how many times he’d thought about taking his hand in the Bentley or on the table over pastries. How many times he’d wished to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, when he kept it long. But instead he says: “Do you remember 1596?”

Crowley, red in the face and half-lidded, blinks a few times before he says, “I believe I do, yes.”

“I loved you then.” A smile graces his face as he recalls Sir Shakespeare’s proposition, that they fulfill two decidedly non-titular roles in his latest tragedy, one of forbidden love and opposing parties all too familiar. Crowley had been all done up in a costume not so well tailored to him, too big in the chest to suit him right, but flashy in the way he wore it. Mercutio, he’d been called on stage, and Aziraphale said it every now and then in the following years, just to hear him laugh. And he’d been a noble Benvolio, if he were to say so himself. “I didn’t know it, but I loved you, and I kept on.”

“France for me.” Crowley fiddles with Aziraphale’s lapel chain, refusing to meet his eye. “I knew before then, that I would. Love you. Knew from the beginning that I’d never get out of it. But you got me in France.”

“I  _ got  _ you?” Aziraphale scoffs, still perched halfway on Crowley’s lap. “You make me sound like some sort of...beast!”

“That you were, that you were.”

“I was a perfect lady and remain so, demon, watch your tongue.”

“ _ And he spake as a dragon _ …”

“I resent you.” But he doesn’t, not really, and Crowley knows this just as well as he, and so it’s back to kissing the life from him. He could start and never stop. The world could end again beyond the bookshop door, and Aziraphale would be none the wiser, preoccupied as he is with the much more pressing matter of recovering lost time. Kissing Crowley silly, the way he’d wanted to since the 40’s. He almost did, at the church. The remnants of it, at least. Without even thinking, he’d wanted to. It was as natural a thought as if he’d thought it a thousand times before and maybe, somewhere deep, he had. But everything came naturally with Crowley, so love was no different. He’d been loving Crowley like a human blinks.

It may have been hours or may have been days before they come to a stop. He’s not really keeping track, just knows it’s not enough, and maybe nothing ever will be. Either way, it shakes out like this: Aziraphale is propped up with his back to the headboard (he’s not quite sure at what point they ended up in his bed, but the couch had never been too comfortable and they’re both clothed, so he doesn’t fret too much) and bespectacled, carding his hands through Crowley’s hair and skimming a collection of wonderful poems by Byron. Crowley is face down in Aziraphale’s chest, arms wrapped around his waist tight and legs all tangled up like untamed vines. The bed is rather large, so there’s no need for Crowley to be all crowded in and small as he is, but Aziraphale is glad for his company and proximity as he finishes off a stanza. 

“What’ve you got there?” It comes out all muffled, with Crowley buried in his chest and all, but Aziraphale manages.

“Something from Lord Byron. He was clever, wasn’t he? And a gentleman, as I recall.”

“Hm, yes. Bit cocky.” Crowley raises his head to speak and rests his chin there, lets out a deep, contented sigh. “Right then. Let’s hear it.”

“What?”   
  
Crowley taps the book in response. “Give me your best, Benvolio.”

Aziraphale can hardly restrain a gleeful giggle. Crowley does know how he so loves to recite, though he hardly ever asks to hear anything. And so he clears his throat and adjusts his shoulders, pauses in his petting Crowley’s hair to turn the page. “There be none of Beauty’s daughters with a magic like thee; And like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if sound were causing the charmed ocean’s pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull’d winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving her bright chain o’er the deep; whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant’s asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, to listen and adore thee; with a soft but full emotion, like the swell of Summer’s ocean.”

“I always liked that one.” When Aziraphale sets the book down and lets his glasses hang by their chain, Crowley is smiling softly up at him. “It’s got a ring to it.”

“That’s rather the point, dear one.” A pause. Aziraphale lets a teasing smile slip. “I never thought you one for poetry.”

“I dabbled.”

“You  _ wrote?”  _

“Eh. I attempted.”

“Well was it any good?”   
  
“Not really.” And then Crowley promptly settles his face back into Aziraphale’s chest, and that’s that. Aziraphale slides down the pillows, cradling Crowley’s head on the way down and turns to flick the lamp, and they don’t really need sleep but it’s nice every once in a while, especially all slot together as they are.

Crowley’s poetry is, in fact, not very good. Not traditionally, at least. Aziraphale knows this because he finds a great big stack of it in the midst of cleaning out Crowley’s flat, three days later. It’s lacking skill or experience, the language is a bit heavy handed. But it’s raw, and it’s beautiful. He hadn’t meant to go prying as he had, but he’s never really been able to stop himself from digging right into anything that interests him, especially when it comes to literature. And Crowley writes of longing, of a century of sleep yet still come the dreams, of unsent letters and scribbles on napkins Aziraphale half recognizes (though his attention has always belonged more to the food sat atop them during their meetings.) All just musings, really, prose. Aziraphale sinks into them, spreads them on the floor and picks out his favorites to visit again. So no, Crowley’s poetry is not very good at all. But if it’d been sewn up to a book, Aziraphale would have a first edition copy, and well loved notes in the margins. He doesn’t bring it up with Crowley. That would be cruel, he thinks, and he shouldn’t have read them in the first place. But he finds himself sparing an extra glance in the mirror each morning, because surely his hair is not  _ spun straw and silver, feathers in itself,  _ nor his skin  _ such temptation I’ll soon Fall again, lower this time than the first. _

And Crowley’s flat  _ was _ cleared out, when they set their minds to it. Aziraphale had had to talk him out of lugging the statue of the two of them back to the bookshop, though, which had been an embarrassing hassle. But Crowley’s plants live comfortably in the flat above the shop (and some of them divided to the lower level, when space ran thin) and his coats on the rack and in the wardrobe, so it’s worth it. Crowley had already practically lived there before, in the coming weeks of Armageddon, so it made more sense to do it properly. Practical, Aziraphale had told him, for convenience’s sake, even though there was no longer an Armageddon to speak of. Crowley had kindly feigned convincing, and they were both satisfied with the outcome. And so the bookshop flat is some crude amalgamation of the two of them, mostly Aziraphale, but things here and there that are undoubtedly Crowley’s. A spare pair of sunglasses on the dining room table, the TV he’d brought, (Aziraphale had never felt the need for one before, what with all the books, but Crowley had whined over his shows and he conceded before they had a row about it) the plants of course, CDS and ornate golden trinkets, a rather large sketch of the Mona Lisa, because evidently Da Vinci had been a dear friend of the demon’s. (“One of your lot, though. Minded his own business. That’s a rare talent.”)

Crowley minds him not to spoil the plants, but still he finds them pretty pots from the shops when he’s out, and is sure to mist them daily. Coos and calls them beauties and prunes them on the weekends. It’s not long after he takes to setting up a balcony garden, with lots of herbs for good measure. They’re well behaved, under Crowley’s eye, but Aziraphale keeps their spirits up. And he treats Crowley to a similar effect. Sees that he stays well taken care of and calls him a beauty, too, and he means it. Really, he calls Crowley all sorts of things, now that he can. Darling in the mornings, when the sun hits his hair in that light through whiskey way. All variations of Dearest, just because it’s true, and he finds Crowley is quite partial to My Apple (though mostly in a scolding or in the aftermath of a domestic.) But My Love he uses most of all, because Crowley needs to hear it. Six thousand years will do that to a fellow, he supposes. The first time he’d said it Crowley had prickled, then melted into the hand holding his face with a whispered “again.” Aziraphale is more than happy to comply. So it’s “I love you” in the mornings, and the afternoons, and the nights, over dinner and as he rests his hands on his waist to pass him in the kitchen. “I love you” when he makes him cocoa, “I love you” when Crowley has morphed and slithered to him, “I love you” for nothing at all, and everything, so much. They’ve remade The Garden, in their little home. It’s their own beginning, with a bright new world to sort out. At last, Crowley has tempted him to his side. Not to hell, but to  _ Crowley’s  _ side. Something just for them. That’s an indulgence Aziraphale decides he can allow.

There’s never a proper wedding. They don’t see any need for it, though they never really sat down and had a talk over it. Ceremonies are a strictly human custom and one of few neither are compelled to give a whirl. They do have quite a good time at Newton and Anathema’s, though, set in the backyard of the cottage they’ve shared since the whole Saving of The World business. There’s fairy lights and white poppies, and a truly scrumptious vanilla buttercream cake that Aziraphale ooo’s and ah’s over near endlessly. They gift the newlyweds a record by Simon and Garfunkel, which Newton eyes apprehensively because it likely means he’ll have to operate a record player. They dance to that very record, Aziraphale with his eyes shut and head pressed to Crowley’s chest, swaying gently to the tune of  _ Song for the Asking. _ He can feel the sheer fabric of Crowley’s flowing dress brush up against his ankles, and the birds overhead sing sweetly along, and there is beauty in something as simple as being in the arms of someone who knows how to hold him. “This reminds me of Vienna.” Aziraphale whispers, and can feel the smile in the kiss Crowley presses to the top of his head.

“We should go back there, some day.”

“I’ll go with you this time. I’ll run anywhere you like.”

It’s no Alpha Centauri, Vienna, when they get there. But it does have the most fantastic schnitzel.


End file.
